


Winter

by ShastaFirecracker



Series: Choices [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Character Study, Chickens, Cooking Lessons, Eskel being a saint, Faint Background Geralt/Eskel, Family Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Horseback Riding, Kaer Morhen, Lambert being a shit, M/M, Melancholy, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Unconventional Families, no jealousy we respect each others emotional baggage like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 10:53:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22968793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShastaFirecracker/pseuds/ShastaFirecracker
Summary: Jaskier finds himself in need of Geralt's protection right when Geralt is about to head to Kaer Morhen for the winter. When Jaskier sweet-talks his way into accompanying Geralt to the castle, he doesn't realize that he's gotten himself into a full-blown case of Meeting the Family.A study of unconventional families, witcher-style domestic fluff, and Jaskier trying his best. [All works in this series can stand alone.]
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Choices [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1620493
Comments: 99
Kudos: 1682





	Winter

**Author's Note:**

> This felt strangely like writing a crossover. Jaskier here is the Netflix soft boy bi/pan disaster we all love, but Lambert, Eskel & Vesemir are all essentially from Wild Hunt (especially Lambert!) while this Geralt is, like, a gentle mix of game and show. But I think this fandom is pretty chill about suspension of disbelief re: blurring the iterations together. So, enjoy!
> 
> Note on the rating: There's such brief explicitness that I didn't think the whole fic deserved the red E, but if you want to pass over the bit that edges out of the orange and towards the red, it starts with the paragraph "Jaskier hasn't laid hands on Geralt since their reunion" and ends when the one-line-at-a-time dialogue resumes.
> 
> See end notes for overly specific tags that might be considered spoilers.

_Slam_ back the door, quick scan – heads all brown, brown, brown, _is that_ -? no, gray – _old lady, damn, don't tell him you mistook an old woman for him_ – a few scurried steps further into the tavern, bump a few elbows – “Watch it, arseface!” grunts the alarmingly burly man whose elbow that belonged to, _yikes_ , try not to bump any more elbows – far enough inside to check the corners of the room –

White! Corner! Brooding!

Jaskier all but sprints to the table at the back and throws himself into the seat across from the person he loves the most in the world at this moment. “Oh thank the _gods_ , I've been following you for days,” he gushes, reaching over and grabbing a half-eaten hunk of bread, his stomach growling miserably. He shoves a wad of dry bread in his mouth and talks around it. “Listen, if you see anyone with a crow tattoo, or, er, crow feathers, that sort of thing, it's sort of a gang marking, and I didn't _know_ Yalda was the leader's niece, you see, so it's really not my fault at all that she fled her family to get away from all the, the,” he flails his hands, “gangishness, and ran into me, minding my own business, and it's also _not_ my fault that she's smart and witty and likes poetry and has thighs that could probably snap my neck –”

Geralt finishes leisurely chewing his bite of stew, reaches across the table and takes back the last of the almost-devoured bread. Jaskier grabs after it.

“Order your own,” Geralt says, dunking the bread in the stew and eating it.

Jaskier groans and lays his head on the table.

“You're broke,” Geralt deducts. He stares into his bowl for a moment as if – Jaskier hopes – contemplating sharing it with his tragically hungry friend.

Geralt takes another big bite of stew. Jaskier whines at him.

Finally relenting, Geralt catches the eye of a passing barmaid and points at Jaskier. “Meal for him, two ales.” As she hurries off, Geralt knocks back the last of the mug already in front of him.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Jaskier mumbles to the table.

“Stop thanking me and tell me what happened,” Geralt says around another bite. He puts on a gruff front, but Jaskier's known him long enough to read the amusement in the corners of his eyes and twitch of his lips. “I left you with a full purse and no gangs in sight six months ago.”

So Jaskier talks. Eventually hot stew arrives and he talks around huge gulping mouthfuls of it. There isn't much to tell that Jaskier hasn't already been through before – frittering away coin over the course of a summer of luxury in Oxenfurt, a whirlwind romance with a well-read young woman who could fight like a viper when cornered, discovering her family's grim secrets, her grim family deciding that he must have been the cause of their golden child running away from home, her grim family and all their grim friends setting out to find Jaskier and do grim things to him...

Well, it's a story Jaskier has lived a few times now. It's always so much fun until the last couple of steps, too.

After a while Jaskier blinks at his bowl and finds it empty. Properly fed for the first time in days, and with alcohol on top of that, he can already feel himself shutting down. He can't remember when he last slept more than three hours at a stretch. A week ago?

Geralt is watching him over the top of his tankard, his own food long gone. “And you were looking for me because you want me to take out the family? Champion for you?” he asks with dry skepticism.

“No!” Jaskier says miserably, sinking lower on the bench. He takes a swig of ale. It's awful ale, bitter and watery. He drinks more, then says, “I don't know what I... I just need company, I think. I just need _sleep_. I can't sleep, I can't watch my back if I'm asleep. I don't want to be _killed,_ Geralt!” He's aware, belatedly, that this comes out much too loud, and that other tavern patrons are looking at him. He's also aware that it was perhaps more dramatic than the circumstances call for. He hasn't actually seen one of the crow men in three or four days. It's possible he lost them.

Geralt softens and rubs the bridge of his nose. “Stay with me a while, then,” he says. “I can give you a couple days of protection, let you get some sleep and figure out a solid plan.”

Jaskier blinks at him. “A couple – a couple of days?”

Geralt shrugs. “That's how long I'll be here. Waiting on some supplies, then I'm gone.”

“But I'll go with you,” Jaskier says, feeling like he's missed a trick.

Geralt shakes his head, but he looks... apologetic, if anything. “You won't want to go where I'm going. If you can plan your way to Novigrad or Vizima, maybe, I know you've got plenty of people who could shelter you.”

Jaskier scratches the back of his neck, feeling oddly unmoored. He and Geralt have been traveling on and off together for six years, and never once has one of them turned the other away. “I hadn't – I suppose I -” He huffs, looks up pleadingly. “Where are you going?”

Geralt's expression closes off. It's a subtle shift, and Jaskier doesn't sense any malice to it, but something in him goes... dull. “Kaer Morhen,” he says.

Jaskier's stomach lifts itself right back up off the floor. “Oh, I'd _love_ to see Kaer Morhen!” he says at once, unable to help a grin. “If it's just that you thought I wouldn't _want_ to -”

“No, I -” Geralt starts, but then cuts off, uncertain. “No,” he says, finally, and Jaskier's grin falters. “I know... you think you want to. I know why. But it isn't... like that. Whatever you think.”

Jaskier shakes his head, bemused. “I don't think anything,” he says. “I know nothing about it, no one does. Is – wait. Is that it? Outsiders aren't allowed?”

“No,” Geralt groans, and puts his face in his hand, elbow on the table. “Sometimes, we have... guests.”

“Then...” Jaskier takes another steeling gulp of ale. “Is it me?”

_“No,”_ Geralt says at once.

Jaskier looks at him helplessly.

Geralt straightens, looking torn. “It'll be cold,” Geralt says, finally.

“Winter tends to be that,” says Jaskier.

“I'll be there four, maybe five months,” Geralt says. “The valley tends to snow in. I don't recommend riding out alone. If you come, you'll probably be there the whole time. It might just be you, me and Vesemir.”

“Who?”

Geralt sighs. “Jaskier, it'll be freezing, lonely, and dead quiet for months. Are you sure you want that, just to get away from a few men with knives?”

Jaskier considers this in actual seriousness. He's gone on lonesome rambles in the wilderness before, for inspiration or for a chance to mourn lost love in peace. He hasn't stayed away from people for more than a couple of weeks at a time, but despite how he acts, he _does_ need a bit of peace and quiet sometimes. And this is different – he won't be alone, he'll be with Geralt, who despite a million protestations has become a legitimately dear friend over the years. And on top of that, he asks himself, would he be willing to suffer some boredom to have months to sift through all the mysteries of Kaer Morhen?

The answer is an _emphatic_ yes.

Jaskier crosses his arms. “So you were planning on sitting around in freezing silence all by yourself? If I'm there, you won't be lonely, and I sincerely promise it won't be quiet.”

Geralt searches his expression for a moment. He seems to see that Jaskier won't be budged, and some of the warmth returns to his eyes before he looks away. “Fine,” he grunts. “You can come.”

Jaskier beams.

-

The castle is a fortnight's ride away. Several days less than that, actually, if it were a matter of riding unencumbered on a swift horse, but Jaskier soon finds out that that isn't the plan. The supplies Geralt mentioned turn out to be an entire cart loaded with casks of salt meats, flour, grain, and spirits, sacks of apples and root vegetables, a couple of crates of tools and nails, and a large wooden cage with four unhappy hens crowded inside. Plus a mule, to pull it.

“Oh,” Jaskier says upon seeing it, taken aback.

“No inns,” Geralt reminds him. “No buying your supper. Prepare yourself.”

“Then...” Jaskier looks at the cart again and suddenly it seems very small. Not nearly enough for two – no, sorry, three – grown men for four months. “Is that enough?”

Geralt smiles. “This is just to bolster the supplies there.”

Relieved, Jaskier sets about getting to know the mule. Geralt won't bother to name her, so Jaskier decides to call her Myrtle.

Jaskier had known Kaer Morhen was remote, but he hadn't appreciated quite how far into the mountains they'd need to travel – and how high. The first week is an easy stroll over the countryside, but the second... oof. The air gets thinner even as the exertion of climbing means Jaskier needs more of it. The mountains that looked so far away a few days ago are rapidly gobbling up the entire sky from beneath, until it's like looking up from the bottom of a deep well to find the sun. And the _cold_ – well. It's still autumn, technically, and there are a few yellow leaves clinging to some trees, but Jaskier stays bundled up in everything he owns and still can't feel his nose for most of the day. In the plains they'd slept on the grass as usual, but once high enough in the mountains, Geralt had started partially unpacking the cart every night so they could sleep in it, away from the icy dirt.

Roach and Myrtle are both as subdued and miserable as Jaskier. Geralt is the only one who carries on as if things are normal, which Jaskier supposes they are, for him.

“Do you even feel temperature?” Jaskier mumbles one night, a day out from their destination. They're in the cart, jammed in between casks and crates, furs pulled all the way over their heads. The hens are burbling unhappily next to them. It's rank and suffocating, considering neither of them has washed in two weeks besides a splash of glacial river water in the face to wake up in the morning (and oh boy, is that effective!), but frankly Jaskier's nose is so cold he can barely smell anything anyway. And then, immediately realizing how stupid and petulant his question was, he says, “Wait, of course you do, no one gets off on a hot bath like you do if they can't appreciate being warm. Oh fuck me, a hot bath, why did I even say it -”

“Shh,” Geralt tells his hair, holding him tighter. “There are baths in the castle. Tomorrow night.”

Jaskier groans but eventually drifts into a restless sleep.

Despite the cold, Jaskier can still appreciate his surroundings. And when they set off the next day, he finds himself extra attuned to the vast natural architecture around them. It could drive a person mad, feeling so small. Bestial cries echo off the infinite stone faces, and Jaskier has no way of knowing if they're eagle or harpy or dragon. He could see any and all of them living here. Geralt had warned him that there might be monsters on the path, but so far it's been clear. The lack of them has only made Jaskier jumpier.

Geralt breaks the silence and Jaskier jumps in his seat. “Slow,” the witcher says, half to Roach and half to Jaskier. “We're at the trailhead. Castle's three hours off. Jaskier, I want you on Roach.”

Jaskier has ridden Myrtle this whole time, sweet-talking her into pulling the heavy cart one more day every time she clearly wants to quit. He thinks he's got a good rapport going with her by now. “What?” he asks.

Geralt is already dismounting and gesturing at Jaskier to do the same. Jaskier does, but reluctantly. “Roach has traveled this trail many times,” Geralt says, giving her a good rub on the nose before passing her reins to Jaskier. “Her footing is sure. You're safer on her than trying to control the cart.”

Jaskier hums nervously. “Safer?”

Geralt shakes his head. “It's a tricky trail, that's all. There will be a few ledges – don't look down. Roach'll take care of you.”

Jaskier closes his eyes and counts to ten, then clambers onto Roach with some difficulty. She whickers at him, annoyed that he isn't as smooth a rider as Geralt. “Oh, hush,” Jaskier tells her. “I've been promised a hot bath, I'll risk life and limb for that.”

Two hours later, Jaskier has almost gotten used to the feeling of having his heart in his throat and his stomach in his shoes. He sees another stone bridge coming up over a gap he can't quite judge, one side of it crumbled off, and the best he can do is clench his arse, swallow a moan of terror, close his eyes, and let Roach trot calmly forward.

The horrible, echoing clack of horseshoes on stone shifts back to the softer sound of thuds on dirt, but Jaskier doesn't open his eyes until Roach's head pulls suddenly to the side. Jaskier shrieks, his heartbeat spiking to a gallop – but a wild look around catches only Geralt tugging at Roach's reins and laughing.

“Do not,” Jaskier wheezes, _“laugh_ at me, you stonehearted _arse.”_

Geralt keeps chuckling anyway and points backwards. Jaskier glances back – from this angle he can see that the bridge was over a shallow gully, rather than yet another thousand-foot drop. Jaskier rounds a death glare on Geralt.

“We passed the end of the tricky bits a quarter mile back,” Geralt says.

“I hate you!”

“You could still break your leg in that ditch,” Geralt says reasonably. “Better to let Roach handle it.”

Jaskier gulps a deep breath for the first time in hours. “Are we there yet?” he groans to Roach's mane, leaning over to rest his forehead.

“Easy slopes and no cliffs or bridges from here to the castle,” Geralt says. “Do you want to trade?”

Jaskier shakes his head, mostly because he's certain that if he gets off the horse now his legs will go out from under him.

He's nearly recovered by the time they round a hill and get their first true sight of Kaer Morhen. And then, suddenly, he's not recovered at all.

Tricks of the surrounding geography have kept all but the occasional battlement hidden from view along the road. From the tiny glimpses, Jaskier had a vague idea in his mind about the size of the main body of the castle. But when it rounds into full view, the breath is knocked clear out of his lungs at the sheer scope of the bloody thing. It's as incomprehensably vast and bleak as the mountain that rises behind it, a crumbling stone edifice of unfathomable age and history. Parapet after parapet, walls beyond walls, upright and forbidding, an unfeeling giant that dares anyone to shiver in its frozen shadow.

Jaskier realizes his mouth is open. He tries to say something, but only gets, “This is... this is... that's...”

He's lost control of Roach, who takes the opportunity to wander off the path in search of a snack. The cart rolls past him, Geralt and Myrtle both completely unconcerned. The cart looks comically quaint, deeply absurd. What the hell is that tiny smidgen of supplies going to be good for, in the face of this... _monster?_

“Hot bath,” Geralt calls over his shoulder. Jaskier shakes his head, forcing himself to focus.

“Right,” he says to himself. “Right. Okay. This is fine. Four months. This is fine. Come on, Roach.” It takes some doing, but eventually he gets her to leave the patch of sweet grass behind and follow the road again.

He watches the castle get impossibly bigger as they approach, and thinks about what he knows of witchers. They're taken in as normal human children. Children, alone, approaching this monstrous fortress over cliffs of certain death, in the deathly cold, in a valley full of predatory beasts. And they start being... altered... when their age is still a single digit, usually. Geralt had once said, voice suspiciously neutral, “There's no point wasting training on the ones who can't tolerate the mutagens.” Jaskier had, of course, thought it very tragic at the time, but now he's beginning to think that nothing about witchers is actually tragic. After all, tragedy is the silver that backs the mirror of romance; they only exist by reflecting each other, a poetic harmony.

No, the making of witchers isn't tragic or romantic. It's _horrifying._

“Lambert's here,” Geralt says suddenly, startling Jaskier out of his reverie. Jaskier glances around as though he might see this other person. Geralt shakes his head. “Tracks, hours old at most. New horseshoes. Stride isn't as long as Eskel's horse, unless something happened to Scorpion since I saw them last. Lambert favors Zerrikanian racers when he can find them. Faster and smaller.”

“Well, now you're just showing off,” Jaskier says.

Geralt's mouth quirks into a lopsided grin. “You and Lambert will either get along like a house on fire or you'll both be dead by morning. Haven't decided which I'd bet on yet.”

“That's encouraging.” Jaskier urges Roach on. “At least you think I could take him.”

“Oh, no. He'd kill you and then I'd have to kill him.”

Jaskier swallows. Why had this seemed like such a good idea two weeks ago?

At long last they ride into view of something like an entrance. Something 'like,' because it could hardly be called functional anymore: there's a drawbridge over a dry gulch, its mechanisms rusted and broken, bridge itself long since smashed into the dirt and reinforced as a walkway with scrap lumber and mounded scree. And then there's a wall full of gaps, great tectonic cracks and landslide-shifts of rubble pouring down from heights too far to make out clearly. Up close, Jaskier can see that the imposing castle face, which looked hard as diamond from a distance, is actually riddled with cracks – the great stones slowly breaking into pebbles over the course of decades of freezing and thawing, freezing and thawing, all while lichen and little plantlings gnaw away at hollow spaces with their roots. No single thing is whole, anywhere in sight. A great wooden door, missing a plank. An archway with no keystone, one side collapsed. Even the fencing, low to the ground, is in shambles.

Jaskier can't shake the feeling that he's riding into a corpse. A giant the size of a mountain, fallen and long dead, its gut cavity open for them to walk into its fossilized innards. The halls will be long and winding, Jaskier imagines, just like intestines. He shivers from more than just the biting cold. He's starting to understand what Geralt was trying to say, back in the tavern. This place isn't a song. Or if it is, it's a very different sort of song from the ones Jaskier usually sings.

They wind past a couple more crumbling walls, and then, all of a sudden, there are signs of life. One side of a courtyard has had its flagstones ripped up and its underlying soil turned into a small vegetable patch, although the plants have already died for the season. Along the north wall are several sheltered feeding troughs packed with new hay. A black horse that dwarfs Roach is standing at one, munching idly. A few shallow steps lead up to a broad double door, one side of which is currently propped open by a barrel.

Jaskier is too distracted by absorbing it all to pay much attention to Geralt dismounting and unhitching Myrtle from the cart, but when Roach starts following the mule towards the hay it startles Jaskier back into reality. “Whoa, wait, let me down, actually, ple- _ease ouch,_ dammit.” This last because she decided to bump him against support beam of the rough shelter over the troughs, trying to scrape him off like a barnacle. “Fine, I'm _going,”_ he tells her, finally managing to get down without too much indignity. She snorts at him before nosing into the hay.

“Saw you coming,” calls an unfamiliar voice, and Jaskier whirls around. A man is emerging from the open door, jogging lightly down the steps. “Knew it wasn't you on Roach from three miles off. How can she put up with such a terrible rider?”

Geralt doesn't even pause in his work of locking down the cart wheels. “She's patient,” he says. “Tolerant. Everything a purebred warhorse isn't.” He finishes with the cart, pulls his gloves off, and strides over to meet the fellow at the door. They lock hands and then swing into a tighter embrace, Geralt thumping the other man on the back. Jaskier catches a sidelong glimpse of Geralt's expression – true pleasure, the lines of care etched deep in his face.

“Guest for the winter?” the other man – well, he must be a witcher – asks, turning to include Jaskier. “Or riding out again? There's a storm coming up. Be gone by noon tomorrow if you're going.”

“Staying,” Geralt says. “This is Jaskier. Jaskier, Eskel.”

Jaskier walks closer and gets his first good look at the man. Sleek, dark brown hair, longer than Geralt's and tied back more severely; olive skin weathered by time and the outdoors, nowhere near as pale as Geralt; and, unavoidably... _scars._ Jaskier had always thought Geralt's body had taken a hell of a beating in his long and violent life. Eskel makes Geralt look like he's merely cut himself shaving a few times.

“Erm,” Jaskier says, getting close enough to offer a hand to shake. Eskel doesn't take it and Jaskier falters. “Yes, well, hello, I'm here, it's nice to meet you -”

“You're the bard,” Eskel interrupts, staring at Jaskier in an unnerving way.

Geralt groans.

Eskel turns his yellow gaze to Geralt. “That damn song's everywhere, you know we've all heard it by now.”

“Just one?” Jaskier asks, frowning.

“You wrote more?” Eskel asks, eyes back on him.

“Oh, _all_ the tales of Geralt's exploits are mine,” Jaskier says, puffing with a bit of pride. “Maybe reproductions don't always attach my name. But yes, I'd say there are dozens circulating, at least -”

Belatedly, Jaskier realizes he did not read the room correctly, because Eskel's dead stare is getting even deader, and Geralt clears his throat. “What'd you bring him here for,” Eskel asks sharply, “research?”

Geralt sighs. “He needs winter shelter like any of us,” he says. “And he's a friend. Songs notwithstanding.”

Eskel scans Jaskier up and down, making Jaskier feel more naked and judged than he has ever felt in front of a crowd. “City boy,” he says. “Known name. Needs to shelter here so badly, must mean he'd be dead anywhere else. So, you a wanted man, Jaskier?” Eskel smiles, then, and with the way his facial scars pull at his mouth and deform his nose, it's a very unpleasant expression indeed.

“I, uh,” Jaskier squeaks, and clears his throat. “I've upset a fair number of people over the years, yes. But not so badly that I couldn't live wherever I like.” He straightens. “I'm here on Geralt's invitation, all right? I'm not here to pry, or, or divulge all your -” He waves one hand. “Witchery secrets. I'm just here for... company.”

Eskel's expression changes. Minutely, perhaps, but enough for some of the tension to leave Jaskier's spine. His grin, though still warped by the scars, gets less feral and more... fondly antagonistic. It suddenly and strongly reminds Jaskier of Geralt, like a family resemblance in attitude rather than in appearance.

“One of his conquests, huh?” Eskel says, and Jaskier splutters. “Well, keep it down.”

“Er,” Jaskier tries, not having expected to go down this route _so_ soon.

Eskel gives Jaskier a friendly thump on the shoulder. It hurts. “I'm fucking with you,” he says. “Mostly. Besides, that song is godsdamned annoying but it is pretty useful. All my contracts the last few years have paid better than they have in, shit. Two, three decades.”

“I know,” Geralt says. “It's infuriating.”

“All right, done complaining. If you're here, you're here,” Eskel tells Jaskier. “It's a big castle. If you get on my nerves, be easy enough not to see you until spring.” He nods at the cart. “What'd you bring us, pretty boy?”

Jaskier reels from the whiplash of interrogation, outing, acceptance, and hearing someone sincerely call Geralt 'pretty boy' to his face and not be immediately punched for it. He's still not entirely sure what just happened when a sack of potatoes is thrust into his unwitting arms. “Ack,” he says, sagging with the weight.

“Pantry,” Eskel tells him, heaving another sack over his shoulder before picking up two more in his arms. Jaskier can barely hold the one he's got. “Don't trip. Some of the flagstones are broken.” He sets off towards the door.

“Come on,” Geralt says, more kindly, hoisting up as much as Eskel had. “He doesn't bite.”

“I'm not afraid of – oof – _biting,”_ Jaskier wheezes, heaving the potatoes higher and doing his best.

-

Unloading the cart takes over an hour. After his first attempt to roll one of the barrels, Jaskier begs off to see to the animals instead. He wanders around the courtyard until he finds the meandering route to the stable proper, which is blessedly blocked off from the wind and replete with horse-care supplies. He heaves a sigh of relief when he leads Roach and Myrtle into the enclosed area, and by the time he's finished brushing them both down and checking their food and water, he's in good enough spirits again to start whistling. It doesn't sound as terrifying inside this nice warm(ish) stable as it did echoing off the mountainsides.

His stomach is starting to grumble and he's hoping he can remember the way back to the main door when a clatter of hooves catches his attention. He glances at the door expecting to see Eskel bringing in his enormous black beast, but instead it's a sleek blood bay, half a hand shorter than Roach, being led by another person Jaskier hasn't met. Short dark hair with a high hairline and a scowl. Only a smattering of visible scars; still wearing his full armor.

It's too much to hope that he might walk by and not notice Jaskier. Sure. Trained witcher with superhuman senses, walk past and not notice the total newcomer in this totally isolated place, who was moments ago whistling while combing tangles out of Roach's mane. That's likely.

Of course the man's amber cat-slitted gaze zeroes in on him immediately. They stare in silence for a heartbeat.

Jaskier decides, fuck it.

“Hello!” he says. “Lambert, I presume? I'm Jaskier, Geralt's bard. Yes, that one, with the coin song. I'm sorry if you find it annoying. I'm staying the winter, if that's all right with you. Not that I can go anywhere now I'm here. Apparently there's a storm coming and I can absolutely assure you that I _would_ die in it without Geralt. Geralt does about half the work of keeping me alive, behind, you know, eating and breathing. I've been told you might want to kill me, which I only bring up because Geralt might be annoyed by it, because he's put a lot of work into me not being dead, as it were, so if. If that's a deterrent, that would be nice. Lovely horse! Zerrikanian racer?”

Lambert stares at him for a long moment. Then he leads his horse towards the stall next to Roach's, tosses the reins at Jaskier, turns and walks away.

“I'm not the _stable boy,”_ Jaskier calls after him, frowning, but Lambert's already gone. Jaskier looks over at the new horse. It snorts at him and stamps impatiently. “Fine, I can be the stable boy,” Jaskier mutters, petting Roach one more time before going back to get the brushes he'd already put away. “I'm useful. See if I'm not.”

He rubs down the small gelding, cleans and hangs its tack, makes sure it's fed and watered. It's a nervous, jittery little thing, but it seems to pick up on Roach and Myrtles' placid moods and calms down eventually. He wonders if he ought to go get the big black monster to complete the set, then decides he'd rather not get his head kicked in.

The sun is low and he's desperately hungry by the time he winds his way back to the castle door. Both sides are shut now, and the cart in the courtyard is empty. He pushes tentatively at the side of the door that was open earlier – it's heavier than he was anticipating, and he ends up leaning his entire weight into it to grind it open on unhappy hinges.

Somehow he's exhausted his quota of awe for the day, because when he enters the grand, echoing, ancient disaster that is the front hall, he doesn't even look up. Instead he follows the sound of voices further inside, towards a promising flicker of orange light and faint smell of meat. He only trips on one bit of stray rubble, so that's a good start.

At the back of the hall and around a corner he finds a giant grate in a freestanding wall, open on both sides, with a merrily crackling fire inside. The floor around the nearer side is strewn with furs and ripped tapestries serving for carpet, with a mishmash of scavenged furniture placed nearby, most of it occupied by chatting witchers. There's also a table with a couple of only-slightly-charred baked potatoes and a significant portion of what appears to be a roasted goat leg left on a platter. Jaskier's stomach shouts for joy at the sight of it. All four – four? – men hear him and turn to look. 

He restrains himself from the food, knowing he needs to make a better first impression than devouring their rations like a starving urchin. He looks at Lambert. "What's his name?" he asks, attempting the friendly approach.

Lambert stares at him again. Then he points at his companions and speaks slowly, as if to an idiot. "Geeerr-alt. Esss-kel. Vesss-"

"The _horse,_ you twat," Jaskier huffs, dropping the friendly approach like a hot potato.

Eskel barks a laugh.

"Oh," Lambert says, sprawling back in his wingback chair, which looks like it belongs in a wizard's study. "Red."

"Wow." Jaskier heads for the table, suffering the heavy gaze of eight amber eyes. He picks up a potato, hisses as he tosses it hand to hand, and starts plucking the burnt skin off. Unsalted, unadorned, barely-cooked potato is not exactly his idea of a great dinner, and yet he swears it's the most delicious thing he's tasted in weeks, after the day he's had. "Stunningly imaginative," he says, mouth full of potato. "Red. One color, two insects. Those poor beasts, I feel for them." He takes another bite. "Well, Red's favoring his right rear leg, just so you know. Found a scratch on his fetlock that looked a bit inflamed, so I put some of Geralt's wound salve on it and wrapped it, you're welcome. Wouldn't ride him so hard again for a few days, not that you'll be going anywhere in the snow." He finishes the potato and sighs dramatically. _"Fuck,_ I was hungry."

Geralt is giving him a warm look from the chaise lounge he's claimed. "Ale, Jaskier?"

"Sweet Melitele, yes," Jaskier says, eyeing the goat haunch and trying to figure out how to acquire a portion without being too much of a boor about it. Geralt stands, pulls a dagger from his belt and passes it to Jaskier, then asks of the room in general, "Bring the cask?"

Lambert shakes his head. "Bring the good Mahakaman shit, come on."

"Early days yet to get that heavy," says Eskel, warning.

"We've got a full house!" Lambert declares. "First time in, what, ten years? Celebration time!"

"Drowning your sorrow at being stuck with all of us, you mean," Geralt says.

Lambert makes a rude noise and a ruder gesture.

The older man, who until now had been silent, finally speaks up. "Stop it, Lambert. But a stiff drink wouldn't go amiss. I'd prefer the herbal, Geralt, if you're fetching."

"I know," Geralt sighs, and leaves towards what Jaskier assumes is the cellar. He's busy awkwardly carving himself a chunk of meat, probably making the witchers around him despair at the way he holds a dagger, but he's too hungry to care. He takes the food over to the chaise Geralt just left and sits, tearing bits off and eating them slower than he'd inhaled the potato.

"So," says the older man, looking at Jaskier. Vesemir, Jaskier assumes. His hair looks a lot like Geralt's, except Jaskier is certain that he earned his gray the old-fashioned way. Time. "You a hostler?"

_Damn_ Jaskier's tongue for being faster than his brain, because he hears himself say, "No, but I'm a hustler" and only barely manages not to end it with a wink. He sits there mortified for half a second, realizing that Vesemir is something akin to Geralt's father.

Then Lambert breaks into a howl of laughter, followed shortly by Eskel's throaty chuckle and Geralt's voice distantly calling, "What'd I miss?"

After that, and with the added lubrication of quite a lot of alcohol, the evening goes more splendidly than Jaskier could ever have hoped. The herbal liqueur that Vesemir likes is a base ingredient in a lot of Geralt's potion-making, one which Jaskier has sniffed and recoiled from before, so he happily joins in the younger witchers' ragging on their mentor for drinking it straight. Vesemir takes it on the nose, apparently very much used to his charges' antics, and gets revenge by launching into cautionary tales about previous instances of all three younger Wolves getting hammered together.

Jaskier is raptly overjoyed to hear any tales of Geralt being young and stupid. Eskel and Lambert quickly pick up on this and take wild advantage of it. When they realize they have a fresh audience for literally any and every story they can think of, they seem to shed any final resistance to having Jaskier here, and in fact they practically fight over Jaskier's attention.

"Took to Signs like a fish to flying," Eskel says, pointing at Geralt, who groans and throws back another shot to deal with it. "How long did it take you to manage Igni without setting your clothes on fire? And, and _shit,_ when Tjold panicked and put you out with Aard and it cracked your head on the wall and your eyes went different directions for a _week -"_

Lambert giggle-hiccups his way through a diatribe about Geralt's hair. "Teased him about his - _hk_ \- old-man hair until he - _hk_ \- tried to cut it with a dagger and shaved himself almost – _hk_ – bald."

Eskel throws his head back and laughs.

"Short," Geralt bellows, his volume control apparently obliterated. Jaskier is shitfaced enough to lean back from the shout as though it has physical presence. "Cut if - fuck - cuttit _short,_ it wass _fine."_

"It was all different lengths for months," Eskel wheezes.

Jaskier stumbles into the fray. "I saw, mm, I was looking for m' _dear_ bestest friend at a, uh, tavern, sort of place, looking around as you do, _where is he?_ Big, big sourface, two swords, white hair, can't miss'im! _Oh!_ There he is! Yes? But -" Jaskier holds up a finger dramatically for the reveal. _"But_ isss an old woman!"

Lambert falls off his chair laughing.

Eventually Jaskier realizes that Vesemir has left without Jaskier noticing. He wavers his gaze around to Geralt, who appears to have multiplied while Jaskier wasn't looking. "Where's Vizima? Vizim-er?" he asks. "Vizzz, uh. Man."

"Doesn't wanna be around for the pukin'," Eskel says sagely. "Thinks we drink too much."

_"Tightass!"_ Lambert roars into the huge, echoing space above them from his place on the floor.

"I have not yet truly begun to drink," Geralt declares, raising his glass and spilling quite a lot of it, while sliding down in his seat. "Company!" he says, toasting thin air, and knocks back the booze in one swallow.

"You're fuckin' done is what you are," Lambert tells him, struggling up from the furs. "Cooked like Lil' Bleater."

Geralt blinks. "We ate Lil' Bleater?"

Eskel laughs far too hard at that, and Jaskier feels like he's missed something.

"There's always another Bleater," Lambert says, leaning forward over his knees, staring much too knowingly at Geralt and then, suddenly, at Jaskier. "This one a bleater?" he asks, lip curling in a way that makes Jaskier's spirit-numbed brain slowly remember how to be concerned.

"Fuck you," Geralt says, kicking out at him and missing.

"Apparently not," Lambert snipes.

"I'm a highly trained professional vocalist," Jaskier says loftily, definitely missing something. "I don't _bleat."_

Lambert snorts a laugh. "Slow as honey over ice, too."

"Lambert," Eskel chides, barely slurring. "You've brought comp'ny before."

"Yeah," Lambert says. "But not a fuckin' minstrel who sings my personal praises all over the countryside, valets my horse, and sucks my cock on command. Gods, what a _tough_ life it must be on the Path for you, huh, pretty boy? This what gets you off these days, having your ego stroked harder than your fuckin' dick?"

Jaskier's mouth falls open. He had belatedly realized he'd been insulted, and gathered his wits to defend himself, only to realize that the true attack wasn't towards him at all. "What?" he blurts. "Geralt hates my ballads! And he _never_ lets me ride Roach!"

The stare Geralt levels at Lambert is as dark as if he'd just drunk a handful of potions. "You have a fight with me, you fight me," he says, raising a finger. "Jaskier's been nothing but a friend to me. If I extend hospitality, you don't get to turn around and spit on it."

"Nah, I got no problem with the bard," Lambert says, leaning back on his hands. "But you, _chhk."_ He makes a clicking noise with his cheek and shakes his head. "I keep waiting for that big head of yours to not be able to fit through the door."

“He has a very small head!” Jaskier all but yells, startling all three witchers into staring at him. “I mean, it'ssa very porpo – propit – purrrporsh'nal head. Tells me to shut up at _least_ six times a day. Can't take a compliment at all! Infa - infruruiating man.” He sits back, blearily certain that he has defended Geralt's honor. Somehow.

Eskel breaks the strange, drunken stalemate by laughing, staggering up, grabbing Lambert's shoulder. “C'mon,” he says. “'S only been five hours, you got all winter to tear each other's throats out. Bed's callin'.”

The suggestion of 'bed' jumps all over Jaskier's brain like an excited puppy and he slumps down on the chaise. “Oh,” he groans. “Bed, yes. Too much Makamamamun.”

Geralt's arm falls heavily over his shoulders. “My room's -” He pauses, swallows back a belch. “Top o' the tower. Warmer here.”

“Oh?”

“Fire,” says Geralt. “Furs. C'mon.”

“What,” Jaskier says blankly, but allows it when Geralt pulls him off the chaise onto the thick mat of makeshift carpeting. He lands sprawled on a thick white pelt that's already toasty from proximity to the fire, and he is immediately on board with Geralt's plan. “Oh,” he sighs, rubbing his cheek on it. “Okay. Good.”

Somewhere above him, Lambert and Eskel are wandering away. More importantly, Geralt scoots up behind him, dragging an edge of tapestry over both of them, and tucking Jaskier into a perfect pocket of heat and soft things and firm arms.

In the back of his mind, Jaskier briefly wonders if he should be worried about the hangover. But then, with no further warning, he's asleep.

-

The hangover is truly stupendous.

When Jaskier wakes – alone – someone has placed a full waterskin and an empty bucket near his head. He makes almost instant use of the bucket, and slightly later, more miserable use of the waterskin to rinse his mouth out.

A horrifically loud, grating voice nearby says, “Don't try to keep up with drinking witchers.” Jaskier lolls his head around until he sees the old man from yesterday. Names escape him. The old man gives him a relatively warm smile, pats his shoulder, and says, “Welcome to Kaer Morhen. There's work to do before the storm comes in. When you can stand, we could use more hands.”

He's probably talking at a normal volume, Jaskier reasons, squinting as though that'll make it quieter. Jaskier manages some sort of combination of vowel sounds in response. The old man sighs and walks away.

Jaskier promptly falls back asleep.

The next time he wakes, he's marginally more aware of who he is, what the date is, how many fingers, and so on. His mouth tastes like Roach pissed in it. Someone's added an apple to the floor next to the waterskin, and Jaskier picks it up, contemplates it for long minutes, then eats it in small, queasy bites.

He becomes aware of very, very desperately needing a piss, and as no one's around and the bucket is already defiled, he stumbles to his feet and does what he has to. He feels significantly more human after that. A glance around tells him that, yes, a truly egregious amount of alcohol was consumed last night, and he's probably lucky he didn't poison himself.

Thankfully he remembers it all, muddy and absurd as it got there for a while. Some of the blackmail stories about Geralt filter back to the front of his brain and he grins, thrilled to have retained them. And then he remembers going to sleep cuddling with Geralt in front of a fire after the man's (essentially) brothers had accused him of being (essentially) a whore. He frowns, scrunching his brow and rubbing his temples.

He's deciding whether or not to lie back down for a while when the castle door squeals open and too-loud footsteps approach. He squints in that direction, not sure he's functional enough to deal with Lambert or Eskel's ribbing.

It's Geralt, thank the gods. Streaked with filth and looking like a common lumberjack in just his shirt and breeches, sleeves rolled up, thick leather gloves halfway up his forearms. His hair is tied back roughly, frazzled around the edges. When he gets closer, Jaskier catches that he smells about as clean as he looks, and that the dirt and soot on his neck is striped through with sweat. When he reaches Jaskier, he brushes the bard's limp, sweat-clumped hair back from his face and grins faintly. "Good first night?" he asks.

Jaskier gives a shameless, pathetic whine.

"There's a barrel of wash water just outside," Geralt tells him. "I made the others leave you be - you don't need to help with the roofs. But when you can, get to the stables and help Eskel batten them down. Snow's only a few hours off, by the smell."

"How can you smell anything over yourself," Jaskier grumps.

Geralt flicks his ear.

"Ow. I was promised a hot bath."

"You'll get it," Geralt tells him. "But I need to finish clearing the flues or we'll be smoked in our beds like so much jerky. You're good with the animals, and the others respect that, Eskel especially."

"I'm not the stable boy," Jaskier grumbles, still feeling too disgusting to take a compliment.

Geralt huffs impatiently. "Everyone has to do their bit," he says. "Or else this isn't shelter, it's a crypt."

"I know," Jaskier whines, rubbing his temples. "I'm in _pain,_ Geralt, give me a minute to be miserable."

Geralt snorts, pulls Jaskier in by a large hand around the back of his head, and plants a kiss on his gross, unwashed hair. It's unfair to tell Geralt he stinks, really. Stones and glass houses. "You're doing fine," Geralt tells him. "Tonight'll be more comfortable."

Jaskier hums assent. When Geralt leaves, he feels a little better.

Before they'd left the lowlands, Geralt had lent him some coin to buy warmer shoes, but there hadn't been enough to spare on a whole new wardrobe. Jaskier had been getting along with his travel-worn carmine leather jacket and a spare cloak of Geralt's, and, on the last few days of travel, with a big pelt tucked around his shoulders while riding Myrtle. Adrenaline had kept him ignorant of the cold yesterday, followed by the alcohol last night.

So even though he should know better, it still somehow takes him by surprise when the air outside the front door punches him dead in the face like a spike-knuckled fist. He shrieks and ducks back inside, incredibly awake now. Wind on the front edge of the storm is howling through the cracks and high canyons formed by the castle walls.

He takes a deep breath, steels himself. Goes back to the fire for a fur to wrap up in and to grab the offensive bucket. Counts to three by the door, then bursts out, running towards the stables.

He makes it there only partially frozen, teeth chattering so hard he's afraid they'll crack. He finds Eskel inside, shirtsleeves rolled up just like Geralt's (the madmen!), using mortar nails and planking to reinforce the north wall of the stable. It's a terribly full place, now, with three horses and a mule, a small herd of goats, and the hens clucking nervously in a corner.

Eskel whistles at him around a few nails between his misshapen lips. "Loft," Eskel calls, muffled. "Bring down everything."

So, Jaskier spends the majority of the afternoon working in the stable. He has to admit that he doesn't hate it, especially after he's done dealing with the hangover bucket and the mucking-out, and after Eskel hands him a somewhat stale roll to chew on and some metallic-tasting water to wash it down. He scurries up and down the loft ladder over and over, throwing down horse blankets, more lumber, a tin bucket of solidified tar, and other odds and ends.

Eskel shows him how to wedge out chunks of the tar with a flat metal scraper and pack it into cracks in the walls, and doesn't seem to be put out by Jaskier's inability to keep up with Eskel's speed. Jaskier works on the interior because Eskel isn't fool enough to think Jaskier could survive working outside, or mean enough to make him try. In fact, by the time Eskel comes back inside with a few snowflakes in his dark hair, Jaskier is feeling sore, disgusting, horrifically unattractive, and also quite pleased with himself.

Eskel nods at his work, which is apparently all the praise Jaskier's going to get – but it's nice, even so. Jaskier feels like not that many people get nods from Eskel. "Check all the feed and then we'll go in," Eskel says. "When the storm's past we'll build a proper coop. Been a while since we had chickens."

The birds are nestled together in a pile of wood shavings, looking irritable about all the moving they've had to do.

"You little shits better lay," Eskel mutters at them. "Or you'll just be a nice break from venison in a couple months."

Getting back inside the castle is no more pleasant than leaving it had been, except now Jaskier has to do the run blinded by white. The snow is coming in thick tufts, like down being violently flung out of a pillow. The first volley of flakes are fat and wet, meaning there'll probably be a thick slick of ice underneath whatever builds up overnight. Fantastic.

It takes his nose a minute to thaw out enough to smell anything, but as soon as he can, he reels. “What -?” he starts.

Eskel grins. Jaskier is starting to get used to how his scars warp his face when he smiles, so he can see the kindness behind the monstrous exterior. “Say whatever else you will about Vesemir, the man can cook,” Eskel says.

The delightful smell is coming from a large iron pot on a swing-arm over the fire, which has been stoked back up to a full roar. The other witchers are all gathered in more or less the same places as yesterday, Lambert and Geralt currently in the midst of some heated debate (Jaskier catches _“always_ throw the first round” and something about card advantage) while Vesemir pulls the iron pot out of the fire using a long hook.

“Food,” Vesemir says, glancing at Eskel and Jaskier. “And then you can freshen up, bard. Which you _could_ have done yesterday...”

“Nope, the welcome party is mandatory,” Lambert interrupts. “And now we know the kid can get shit done even if he's hung over and stinking like the back end of an alghoul. Might not toss him over a wall yet.”

“Oh, thanks for your magnanimity,” Jaskier snipes back. “I'll make sure to bleat about it in my next song cycle, _Tales of the Wolf Who Was Raised in a Barn.”_

Geralt and Eskel laugh, and Lambert takes the hit with grace. Vesemir doles out bowls of thick, rich stew, dense with herbs and end-of-harvest vegetables. Having eaten only an apple and a roll and then done several hours of physical labor, Jaskier inhales one bowl so fast he isn't sure it ever touches his tongue. He has no qualms about getting a second helping because the others all are, too, but this time Jaskier savors it, appreciating the hearty heat of it in the face of the winter storm.

“Geralt,” Vesemir says idly. “There was a collapse on the south stairs in the barracks. Blocked most of the intact dormitory rooms.” He glances up. Jaskier finds him totally unreadable. “So I put the bard's things in your quarters. Assuming that suits you.”

Does Vesemir not... well... _know?_ Or is he being delicate about it for some reason? Opinions of same-sex dalliances vary wildly across the Continent, but they lean towards the negative, and Jaskier knows perfectly well not to advertise it loudly anywhere. But Jaskier had had the impression that witchers, much like their neutrality on all sorts of political and religious subjects, largely didn't care.

Geralt says “Hmm.” It is one hundred percent unhelpful.

“Jaskier, is it?” Vesemir goes on. “Didn't get properly introduced before.”

“Er,” Jaskier says. “Ah. Yes.”

“I couldn't help but notice your lute. Extraordinary instrument.”

“Oh.” Jaskier brightens. “Elven, yes. Filavandrel gave it to me. I got it on the first adventure I ever had with Geralt, actually! In apology for smashing my old one, but the trade-up was completely worth the mild concussion – what?” He realizes that eyebrows have gone up all around, except for Geralt's.

“The king of the elves gave you his lute?” Lambert asks, disbelieving.

“Well,” Jaskier demurrs. “He was starving, and it's not like a lute is edible. Geralt did give him quite a lot of coin, so I guess it evened out.”

The raised eyebrows all round on Geralt. “Of course he did,” Eskel sighs.

Geralt shrugs noncommitally.

“I'd love to hear it played,” Vesemir says. Jaskier takes note of the phrasing. “Bring it down sometime.”

“Oh, I'll have to,” Jaskier says emphatically. “I can't spend all winter idle. This is a chance to do some serious, uninterrupted composition! Bawdies and shanties are easy enough to whip up on the road, but the dramatic epics take time and serious consideration to write. Maybe I can bounce ideas off you. Geralt alone has done so much for the realism of my storytelling. Three more witchers -”

“Does he ever shut up?” Lambert asks Geralt.

Geralt rumbles another noncommittal noise and stuffs his mouth with stew.

“Shit,” Lambert grunts, and does the same.

Jaskier happily chatters away, sometimes fielding a question or two but mostly just filling the silence. As soon as Lambert's done eating he gets up and leaves. Vesemir stays long enough to be polite, or at least more polite than Lambert, but he then begs off as well. Eskel stays the longest, seeming to be the only one actually listening to Jaskier.

In a momentary lull, Eskel leans towards the fire to warm his hands, and asks casually, “When did you start fucking?”

Jaskier chokes on his mouthful of watered wine. He's not looking to get drunk again, but the warming effect is nice.

“What's it matter?” Geralt asks, not quite sharp.

“Doesn't, I guess,” Eskel says, still looking into the fire.

After a long beat, Geralt says, “We're friends. It's the Path. You know what it's like.” Jaskier can't read his tone, and he feels like he shouldn't be here for this, like this is something private.

Eskel's warped mouth twitches in something that might be amusement. “I do,” he says. After a moment, he stands. “Well. Be seeing you around, Jaskier.” He nods. “Geralt.” He goes.

Some base part of Jaskier feels like slinking away with his tail between his legs. After a long minute of silence, Jaskier clears his throat. “So,” he says. “Should I... be more worried about Eskel killing me, or...?”

“No,” Geralt says shortly, looking down at his hands. Is that... shame? A hint of regret? “Remember when I told you never to sing about the boys of Kaer Morhen?”

Jaskier does. Vividly. And, in so remembering, his eyes get like saucers.

“Oh, shit,” he says. “Oh, gods. Oh no, I shouldn't have come here. Oh sweet Melitele help me -”

Geralt looks at him like he's gone mad.

“I'm _trapped_ in a castle _full of your exes,”_ Jaskier whisper-shouts, doubling over on himself. “And your _father!”_

Geralt snorts with surprised laughter. It catches in his chest like dry tinder under a campfire and builds until it's a full, deep laugh from the gut, and Jaskier stops panicking long enough to stare at him and appreciate the sweet sound.

“Don't -” Geralt gasps his breath back under control. “Don't worry about it. Eskel likes you, it's just – complicated.” He takes a deep breath and stands, holding out a hand to pull Jaskier up. “Besides, we've all brought company before. Those feelings witchers don't have – they've been hurt far worse.”

Jaskier breathes a few times, settling his fluttering stomach. “Okay. All right. Good.” He takes another deep breath and winces, ducking his head to sniff himself. “Ugh.”

Geralt pulls his hand, and Jaskier follows.

The way to Geralt's room is terrifying. Of course it is. What about this castle could possibly be sensible? The stairs that lead in a huge sweeping arc around the interior wall of the central tower are cracked and crumbling just like everything else, and they go up and up and up without break until it makes Jaskier dizzy to look down. There are railings, but they've clearly been added much later by someone with a basic sense of self-preservation. They're a simple construction of unfinished planks attached to the stonework with mortar nails and a prayer. Jaskier is sure that in the castle's heyday it was probably a warrior-machismo thing, to show no fear going up and down these stupid deadly stairs.

Jaskier is rapidly beginning to hate everything about this castle's heyday.

But the room is worth the climb, when they get there. It's grandiose in scale but Geralt clearly only uses a small fragment of the space. A stone-grated brazier is built into the center of the floor, which Geralt lights with a flick of his wrist. One corner blocked off by folding screens and bookcases contains a wide, sturdy bed piled with blankets and furs. A nearby table has a scattering of alchemy equipment and a few books on it. Geralt's pack and swords are already propped against the wall by the bed – along with Jaskier's pack and lute.

In another alcove surrounded by screens, there sits an enormous copper washtub. Jaskier moans at the sight of it.

Drawing the bath is less convenient than paying an innkeep to do it for you, but probably far more convenient than it ever is for the innkeeps. “Have to get our own water,” Geralt says, walking over to a heavy wooden door. “Installed rain cisterns on the floor above, where the roof's gone. They'll be full now, after the fall rains. When they run low or ice up we'll have to go out and collect snow.” The door opens to some kind of servant's corridor. A faint whistle of icy wind follows Geralt through it. Jaskier shivers pre-emptively.

Makeshift pipework and miniature sluice gates emerge at outlets in convenient locations like this one. There's a spout contraption that Geralt operates with a rusty iron lever and a lot of muttered curses. Jaskier helps lug buckets of freezing water back and forth until the copper tub is half full. Then Geralt squats beside it, rubs his hands, and puts them against the metal sides. Orange, flickering magic surrounds his palms. Jaskier crouches nearby, blowing into his hands, resisting the urge to ask _how much longer_ every ten seconds.

Finally Geralt dunks his hand in the tub, swishes the water around, and says, "Warm enough. Get in and I'll keep heating a bit longer. It takes a while."

"Don't boil me," Jaskier says, but he stands and fumbles his fastenings open with numb fingers anyway. When he gets to his underthings, he chatters, "And d-don't judge me."

Geralt snorts.

The water isn't even steaming, is probably lukewarm at best, but stepping into it sends agonizing needles into Jaskier's cold feet anyway. He hisses and curses, forcing himself to stay in and adjust, and slowly, gingerly, he sits. The tub is so generous, the water comes all the way up to his armpits. Some inns barely provide more than a washbucket and call it a tub fit for a grown man. Jaskier sinks back until the water touches the bottoms of his ears and laps at the rim when he moves too fast.

"Ohhh, dear," he mumbles, already feeling drunk on the sensation. The tepid water is rapidly becoming hot water, and Jaskier is just as rapidly falling in love with it. "Oh this is a sexy, sexy bath, Geralt. I want to do naughty things to this bath."

"Like sleep in it," Geralt says knowingly.

"The most, hhhhaaa, universal form of intimacy, don't you think, to, uh-" Jaskier interrupts himself with a giant yawn. "Just sleep? Hmm mm."

Geralt takes his hands away and stands. The water is definitely steaming now. "It's early," he says, amused. "And you slept ten hours last night."

"Mmm."

Geralt shakes his head and goes to rifle through his saddlebags for soap. He tosses a hard chunk of it into the bath with a loud plop and splash that startles Jaskier alert. _"Wash,"_ Geralt orders.

"Not getting in?"

"After you," Geralt says. "Get clean. No distractions."

Jaskier sighs dramatically, but he fishes the soap up from the bottom of the tub. He could kiss this soap right now. He's teasing Geralt, but he's never wanted more badly to scrub himself raw.

A quarter of an hour later Jaskier is flushed all over, clean and tender-skinned, smelling of the lavender oil he'd demanded Geralt fetch from the packs. Geralt finally has to bully him out of the water with threats Jaskier only laughs at. The brazier has been going long enough that the air doesn't send Jaskier scurrying for the furs on the bed, so he lets himself drip dry. He drags a footstool over to the tub and takes up his usual perch behind Geralt's head, chattering about nothing while he washes Geralt's hair and scrubs his back.

The water is grimy by the time Geralt gets out – all that chimney-clearing – but the man himself is clean and sweet-smelling, and naked, and the room is warm now, and, _well._

Jaskier hasn't laid hands on Geralt since their reunion in that inn. He decides that means he's got two weeks of catching up to do, never even mind the several months spent apart before that. Geralt lets himself be pushed and prodded onto the bed, nips at Jaskier's bottom lip and at his neck and then bows and sighs so beautifully when Jaskier sucks him down and works him into a writhing frenzy. It's messy with spit and urgency, this first one. Jaskier swallows Geralt's release but gives him no time to recover before taking his talented tongue further down.

This is something Jaskier will only do if Geralt's just bathed, but gods, he loves it. Mostly because of the way Geralt loves it – panting and groaning, riding Jaskier's face, rendered completely nonverbal. Jaskier only stops when his own neglected cock brushes against the furs under him and he nearly comes on the spot. Shaking, he finds the right oil to slick himself with, fucks in, and promptly comes burying a strangled shout in Geralt's neck.

“Sorry,” Jaskier pants. “Sorry, _fuck.”_

Geralt rolls himself on top with zero effort, looking practically feral, his rumpled hair starting to dry into a white halo backlit by the brazier. “Not a problem,” he says in a way that makes Jaskier worry.

Everything Geralt does then is too much, too soon, too good, and so ruthlessly exquisite that Jaskier soon has involuntary tears streaking down the side of his face. Geralt sucks Jaskier all the way to the back of his throat while he gets the oil and presses in with one, two thick fingers, finding and tormenting Jaskier's sweet spot, thumb rubbing the skin behind his balls. It drags Jaskier back to hardness almost against his body's will, although his spirit is entirely willing. When Geralt finally takes his fingers away, Jaskier's breath is shallow with desperation.

Geralt is still wet with Jaskier's come, sinking into place in Jaskier's lap. _It's a good thing the bed is sturdy,_ is all Jaskier can think as he sits up, props furs behind his back, and loses himself.

Jaskier lasts this time. He loses track of how long he spends inside Geralt, fucking the most incredible sounds out of him, working him through a second urgent orgasm and a much later, much more overwhelmed third. By then Geralt is on his back again, Jaskier near the edge of the bed so he can leave one foot on the floor for leverage. When Geralt shakes and clenches and loses what little spend he has left onto his already-streaked stomach, Jaskier can't take it anymore. He pulls out and wrings his hand around himself until he coats the inside of Geralt's thigh, shuddering and whimpering.

Jaskier manages not to collapse where he stands, but it's a close thing. Blearily he gropes by the bed for something, anything, and comes up with his chemise. Well, it needs laundering anyway. He wipes the really quite impressive amount of mess off of both of them, throws the chemise back to the floor, and crawls over Geralt so he can finally collapse, wrecked, into the ridiculous heap of disarrayed furs.

For a minute, they just breathe. Then Jaskier mumbles, “Need t'wash again.”

Geralt rumbles a negative.

Jaskier groans and stretches himself against Geralt's side. His bones feel liquid. “Fuck me,” he sighs.

“Mmhm.”

“No, I mean, hmm.” Jaskier licks his lips and sighs again. “Sometime this winter. No, umm, travel afterward. Good time for it.”

Geralt doesn't respond for a long moment. Jaskier rolls his head back and squints to get a better look at his face. “If you want,” Geralt says finally.

Jaskier hums. He's known since the first time Geralt shamelessly displayed his desire for Jaskier's cock that the man enjoys the arrangement they have. It hadn't occurred to him that maybe Geralt isn't interested in reversing it at all. But Jaskier isn't shy about asking for what he wants, either, so he says, “Perhaps only once. But if you think I want to live my whole life without knowing what it's like to get wrecked on your cock, you are dreadfully mistaken, sir.”

Geralt's warm chuckle eases Jaskier's mind. “Fine,” he says. “Now stop planning for next time and enjoy this one.”

Jaskier nuzzles Geralt's shoulder and hums, content.

Outside, the snow falls.

-

So, winter passes.

There's a strange mixture of urgency and boredom to life in Kaer Morhen. Some days Jaskier can't find a moment to sit down among all the endless chores: repair-work to keep the building from falling down around their ears, piping and fireplace maintenance, animal care, the endless task of cooking enough to feed five (though the witchers ought to count for two apiece). But then some days stretch out in vast swaths of empty time, desolate as the wind that howls through the valley and between the castle walls.

At first Jaskier spends most of his time alone or with Geralt. The uninterrupted intimacy means that the nights are certainly warm enough, and he hasn't been so thoroughly relaxed in many months. And when Geralt isn't there to cause distraction, he gets plenty of composition done, having already had a few ideas kicking around in his head. But once he wrings all he can out of his preexisting notes, he finds himself at a loss for new words.

So he finds himself drawn into the quiet, methodical lives of the other Wolves in small ways he couldn't have expected. First, there's Eskel – quiet and self-conscious, cynical about many things, who expresses emotion about as well as Geralt does, but who also contains a core of warmth and compassion (also like Geralt) that hasn't been snuffed out by thankless years on the Path. None of the witchers outright demand that Jaskier work to earn his room and board, but their collective competence makes Jaskier feel like a complete heel if he doesn't assist however he can. And the most reasonable way he can help is with the animals. Thus: Eskel. They spend a lot of time together in the stables, first building a chicken coop and a small outdoor pen for the hens to cluck around in, then tending (successfully) to Red's ankle wound when it inflames, then regularly meeting in the mornings to collect eggs and milk the goats.

Jaskier's knowledge of horses comes from his childhood and youth in a monied household in which he rode frequently, as a viscount ought. He'd never enjoyed it much, and leaving horses behind when he struck out on his own was something he'd never regretted. But he remembers how to care for them perfectly well, and of course he's become very endeared to Roach over the years. Eskel respects his competency with the animals but still turns out to have a hell of a lot to teach Jaskier as the weeks go on. Roach is a very forgiving mare who has never been finicky about anything Jaskier does. Red and Scorpion are different beasts altogether. Still, over time, Jaskier comes to be able to read their moods and work with them – even Scorpion the terrifying purebred Kaedweni stallion, eighteen hands at the shoulder and built like a small mountain.

(Reading between the lines, in a winter's worth of loaded silences and half-spoken confessions and overheard scraps of reminescence, Jaskier learns other things about Eskel: about his child of surprise who wrecked his face, about the friends he's lost on the Path, about what he is to Geralt. That he can probably claim most, if not all, of Geralt's firsts – and vice versa. That there is still something there between them, something old and deeply wounded and unspoken-of for more years than Jaskier has been alive. Jaskier can't help them, but he hurts for them. It's clear that this won't be a magical season where anything changes between the two, so Jaskier doesn't withhold any comfort Geralt can take from his body, but he also never mentions the closeness of his and Geralt's company in front of Eskel or the others. It's there, and everyone knows about it. No need to drag it out to be stared at.)

Then there's Lambert.

On days with blue skies, no wind, and minimal snow on the ground, Lambert shows up in the stables to take Red. Jaskier quickly picks up on the trend and starts judging the weather in the mornings, and getting Red saddled if he thinks Lambert is going to show up. The first time Lambert walks in, looks for his tack and finds it missing, and rounds angrily on Jaskier only to have Red's reins cheerfully handed to him, the witcher looks like he's so infuriated he's about to burst.

Jaskier quickly finds that Lambert is weak against being killed with kindness, so he's always at his sunniest when Lambert comes around, just to drive the witcher mad. He packs lunches in Red's saddlebags on the days Lambert goes for rides. He plaits colored yarn from destroyed tapestries into Red's mane. He spoils both man and horse rotten without saying a word about it, until, one day, Lambert snaps.

“Saddle Roach,” Lambert growls, snatching Red's reins out of Jaskier's extended hand. “You're coming with me.”

“Er,” Jaskier says, taken aback. “Geralt -”

“Geralt can eat my entire ass,” Lambert snaps. “Get on that godsdamned horse, bard.”

Frankly terrified of what will happen if he doesn't, Jaskier saddles Roach and rides out with Lambert.

And Lambert... teaches him to ride. It certainly wasn't what Jaskier was expecting, and at first he almost laughs about it, but by the time they get back late in the afternoon the blisters on Jaskier's arse are developing blisters of their own and he's not laughing anymore. When Jaskier tries to complain to Geralt about it, the man just raises an eyebrow and asks if Jaskier needs any chamomile rubbed on his bottom. And apparently Geralt has no issue with Roach being appropriated for this purpose, so... Jaskier has to deal with riding lessons now, apparently.

At least three times a week Lambert bullies Jaskier out into the valley on Roach, pushing him hard to get better at handling her over rougher and rougher terrain, challenging Jaskier to races he isn't allowed to refuse, demanding that he learn to control Roach one-handed even though there's no chance Jaskier will ever be riding while wielding a sword.

At first Jaskier struggles with how he feels about it. He wants to hate it – he certainly does hate the physical aches and pains, the hard labor of it all – he hates that it reminds him of a childhood he walked away from for a _reason,_ damn it, especially because Lambert's teaching style involves a lot of insults and negative reinforcement – and yet - 

And yet.

He gets better. His body gets used to the abuse. He learns what it's like to let Roach have her head at a full gallop on an unbroken stretch of trail, which is _nothing_ like the riding he did growing up. He learns what it's like to keep his eyes wide open to the moving landscape around him instead of needing to keep glancing at the ground in front of his feet so he doesn't trip over something. He gets good enough at directing Roach with his knees that he can play the lute while riding, which annoys Lambert, and therefore Jaskier immediately starts doing it as much as he possibly can.

And Lambert finally softens towards him. The back-and-forth sniping and snarking is still there, but it becomes comfortable, cooperative. For some reason, taking out his irritation in the form of bullying Jaskier into bettering himself was exactly what Lambert needed.

(One evening, with the snow falling gently outside, Geralt fulfills Jaskier's request. It's been three years since Jaskier last took a man this way and he's less ready for it than he thinks he is, but Geralt is patient with him, using mouth and fingers and mouth again for what feels like hours, until Jaskier barely feels the stretch when Geralt finally brings them together. Jaskier rides himself raw, fisting handfuls of Geralt's silky hair, feeling drunkenly invulnerable knowing he can take _this,_ knowing he can ruin Geralt inside and out – because even if Geralt prefers the other way, he is still wrecked by the time he spills inside Jaskier, reduced to feral noises and a very un-witcherly lack of control.

(The next day, the skies are beautifully crisp and clear and the valley shines with white. Lambert suggests a ride. Jaskier doesn't know what sort of face he makes in that moment, but it's followed by absolute certainty that Lambert had made the suggestion _knowing full fucking well._ If it's because of stupid enhanced witcher senses or just because Jaskier can't fully disguise his walk, Jaskier isn't sure, but either way he pelts Lambert around the courtyard with hard-packed snowballs while the man laughs his meanest laugh.

(Jaskier has no brothers by blood. Neither does Geralt, he supposes. But by the end of the winter, he supposes he now has just as many brothers as Geralt does.)

Vesemir, then.

Vesemir is the hardest witcher to read and the toughest nut to crack, in the end. He's been nothing but kindly towards Jaskier from the beginning, which Jaskier thought was a good start until he realized that that mild politeness was actually the steepest, thickest wall of them all. It's hard to understand exactly what Vesemir is to the other three Wolves – their father, their teacher, the one man whose word is always sacred, the worst demon any of them has ever faced.

As with Eskel, a lot must be read between the lines, because no one talks about it outright. Jaskier finds himself remembering every tiny scrap Geralt has ever mentioned about becoming a witcher, and looking at Vesemir, and thinking: _him._

Geralt, late at night, voice toneless, saying “There's no point wasting training on the ones who can't tolerate the mutations.” Geralt mentioning that he'd been put through the mutation process twice, which had resulted in his white hair. Lambert's perpetual anger, and the way it both intensifies and quietens when he's speaking with Vesemir, like a flame becoming hotter as it concentrates onto a smaller target. Eskel and Geralts' unspeaking deference to the man, and the blankness in their usually warm eyes when they look at him.

But it's too easy for Vesemir to be a mere monster. Many, many lifetimes ago, the same things were done to him. Not an excuse – but also not a story easily erased, even by so much time. And time, oh, _time._ Jaskier can't imagine the stretch of it, the weight, an impossible chain of however many hundreds of years dragging down and down and down at Vesemir's neck. That the man is as unbowed as he is speaks to his character in a way that makes Jaskier understand how hard it is for the other witchers to disrespect him.

Jaskier is in a unique position because he neither owes nor blames Vesemir for anything. It allows him a certain degree of freedom within his own mind to speculate about the man. And as he does, the ideas for composition begin to flow again.

The first time Jaskier feels like he's truly caught Vesemir's attention is when he first brings down his lute to play near the kitchen fire while Vesemir prepares dinner. Jaskier hasn't bothered to ask if Vesemir wants a performance – he simply shows up and delivers, much like he does at any inn. But knowing that Vesemir's interest lies in the lute itself, not Jaskier's songwriting, Jaskier makes an effort to showcase what the mastercrafted elven instrument is capable of. He plays for over two hours, the oldest tunes he knows, folk melodies and the classical ballads he'd learned in school. He sings without embellishment, pausing only for sips of hot wine with honey to keep his throat limber.

He's gotten so lost in the playing that by the time he wraps up Von Leuvhothen's _Sonata of Spheres, Fourth Cycle,_ he hasn't even noticed that the other witchers have all showed up to eat, nor that Vesemir has put a plate of stewed wild boar with apples and rosemary on the table by his seat.

Jaskier clears his throat, coming out of the sort of trance that the classics always put him in. "Would you like Loideáin's _Response to the Spheres in Springtime?”_ he asks. “I transposed it to a string composition as an academy project. Unless there's a harpsichord somewhere in the castle. It's been a while since I played keys –"

Vesemir waves a hand to shush him. "Take a break and eat, child," he says. "And no, no harpsichords around, I'm afraid."

Jaskier preens at the fact that he said 'take a break,' not 'stop.' (He tries to ignore the 'child' bit.) He unslings the strap of the lute and picks up his food. At the first bite he moans. "Oh, that's good. How are you this good? Not like you're spoiled for choice of ingredients here. I thought every meal would be potatoes in the coals and swallowing eggs raw, or som'ing." He's talking with his mouth full again. He needs to stop that. His manners are becoming ruined for any potential courts he might visit in the future.

Lambert scoffs. Vesemir smiles at Jaskier. "Awful lot of time on my hands," he says. "And for all the many skills I did teach Geralt, you certainly cannot judge my cooking by what he took away from it."

Geralt frowns. "I do fine," he grumbles. But Jaskier joins in the general laughter at his expense, knowing full well that Geralt's cooking ability extends as far as 'make the meat not raw anymore, then eat it' and not much further.

After that, Jaskier often plays in the main hall while Vesemir is working somewhere nearby. In the silence between pieces, Vesemir will sometimes ask about the composer, or the era, or ask Jaskier to repeat a certain chord or refrain. His eyes will sink half-closed as he listens to the response, be it talk or music, and then he'll nod and go back to whatever he was doing.

Jaskier wonders what he's remembering.

Less often, Vesemir will call Jaskier over to be an extra pair of hands to assist with cooking. Eventually this turns into Jaskier being in charge of mixing and kneading bread, because Vesemir gives up on trying to teach Jaskier knife skills after the fourth time he cuts his hand. Jaskier – in his usual hyperbolic way – complains that his fingers are too valuable to be butchered like this, and to his total shock, Vesemir _agrees._ So Jaskier ends up learning about yeast mother, and proving, and how to boil dough before baking it to make a thick crust, or touch it as little as possible to make tender rolls that are as much air as they are bread. He doesn't ever quite master it all and he makes plenty of creations that are black on one side and raw on the other, but after a couple of months he can at least say that a pile of raw flour does not intimidate him.

-

So, time passes. It alternately speeds past like Red at a full gallop and slows to a creep like the cracks that spiderweb their way across the stonework – but, ultimately, time passes. Wintering in Kaer Morhen is like a dream. Not a daydream or fantasy, nor a nightmare, but a true dream – blurry at its edges, difficult to remember, full of details that aren't terribly important. _Muffled._

Jaskier understands why Geralt thought he would be bored here, but he isn't. He's excited to re-enter the world of the living, sure – he misses people, crowds, loudness and cheer, voices and color and vibrancy. But he doesn't hate this, either. He feels like a little crab making a tiny home inside the hull of an ancient shipwreck. The castle is a carcass, but new things always grow from death and Kaer Morhen is no exception. Jaskier finds himself in love with the little mosses and vines that live in the cracks of the stones. No matter how deathly cold and iced-over it gets outside, there are always living plants to find, because the cracks run so deep they protect the roots from ice.

Jaskier does love a good metaphor.

Eskel is the first to leave. He tells Jaskier he's going one morning while they're feeding the chickens. “Might be one more hard freeze left,” he says. “But I had a lean summer last year, and I need to get an early start.”

Jaskier wonders if the fact that he's sharing Geralt's bed is what drives Eskel away. He asks Geralt as much the next day, but Geralt only shakes his head. “He'd have left at the start of winter if he minded,” Geralt says. “Do him the courtesy of taking him at his word.”

But Jaskier is pretty sure that Eskel's word, like Geralt's, is often tailored to the comfort of the listener, not the truth of the matter at hand. Eskel packs his things that night, saddles Scorpion the following still-too-cold morning, nods at Vesemir and Jaskier, embraces Geralt, smacks Lambert on the head, and rides out.

The weather is definitely turning, but the stables feel colder. Jaskier has a harder and harder time motivating himself to get up early in the mornings to tend to the animals. The goats don't seem to like him as much now that Eskel isn't next to him.

Oddly, Vesemir goes next. Jaskier had the impression that he keeps the home fires burning most of the year, but apparently he still leaves on the odd errand or contract. Errand, this time, although he won't say what for. Geralt's guess is to buy new books, but Jaskier notices that he only guesses, never asks Vesemir outright.

Jaskier knows the season is about to be truly over when he comes downstairs for the last evening meal Vesemir is cooking before he leaves, and finds chicken on his plate. He stares at it for a long minute, until Geralt nudges him with an elbow. “In a couple of weeks, no one'll be here to take care of them,” Geralt says gently.

“I could've...” But Jaskier trails off. Could have what? Taken them on the road? Traveled the Continent with his lute on his back and a giant bloody crate with four angry hens dragging in the dirt behind him? Eskel had warned Jaskier not to name them, and Jaskier hadn't given them proper names, really, but he had called them things. He wonders if this is Crookwing, Brown Spot, Twistytoe, or Burble. Then he really wishes he hadn't wondered that.

Instead Jaskier stiffens his spine, draws in a deep breath, and takes a bite of his dinner. It's delicious. Of course it is. He's trying very hard to ignore the way Lambert is side-eyeing him. He swallows with a little difficulty, then asks, “What happens to the goats?”

“I turn them loose to roam the valley,” Vesemir says. He's been watching Jaskier's reaction as well, unreadable as ever. “In the fall, whoever's here will round them back up. Always lose a few to predators, of course, but often as not there'll be a few new kids in the herd, too.”

Jaskier swallows another bite. “Myrtle?” he asks.

“I'll take her when I leave,” Vesemir says. “I haven't any other mount.”

Jaskier opens his mouth, then closes it. Myrtle doesn't belong to him – Geralt bought her, Geralt can give her away as he chooses. He glances at Geralt, but the man is looking firmly at his food.

“She's a good mule,” Vesemir says, looking shrewdly at Jaskier. “I've no intention of selling her. My errands won't take long, and she'll be back here with the goats by midsummer.”

“Yes,” Jaskier says. “I mean, of course! She's a good girl. She'll – she likes it here. I'm sure.” He applies himself to his dinner and doesn't ask any more questions.

During the week after Vesemir's departure, no new snow falls. Meltwater continually thunders down the Gwenllech, raising its banks several feet. Meals become camping fare – potatoes in the coals, cold salt pork, and the last few sad, mealy, withered apples, most with a few worms in. The stables are empty except for Roach and Red, and Jaskier sleeps late every morning.

Surreptitiously, Jaskier begins to pack his things. His quills, inks, and notes have found their ways all over the castle, but he gathers them up. The supplies he keeps for repairing his lute had been sitting out on Geralt's alchemy table, but he returns them to the inner pocket of his pack. Hair and bath oils he corks tightly and wraps up in his spare clothes for quick stowing.

Geralt catches him in the stable one afternoon, rooting around in the empty coop. Jaskier stands up guiltily, wood shavings in his hair, clutching a small bunch of feathers. “What are you doing?” Geralt asks, looking amused.

“Um,” Jaskier says. There's no hiding the feathers now. He twiddles them. “I was thinking I might try a hat. What do you think, could I work one of those floppy hats with a few feathers on the side? I think it might make me look more fun, more approachable, you know.”

Jaskier isn't a complete idiot, so he knows Geralt sees right through him. But Melitele bless the man, he doesn't say another word about the feathers. Instead he says, “Lambert's leaving tomorrow. South to Fosvern, then east.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says. He tucks the feathers behind his ear for safekeeping. “Ah. Our merry band depletes to almost nil, eh?”

Geralt sighs at him and gives him that fond look, the one that makes Jaskier question his entire life, because for a moment he can't remember if he has any ambitions beyond getting Geralt to give him that look forever. “We could all leave together,” he says. “I'm planning to carry on south. You can stay in Fosvern or come with me, as you like. You're packed?”

For a moment, Jaskier is silent. Then he says, “Yes.”

“Do you want to go tomorrow?”

_“Please,”_ Jaskier says, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice and failing. He doesn't say, _'I hate it here now, this is one of the most awful feelings, I feel like I'm slowly suffocating to death while watching all my limbs detach themselves and walk away from me.'_ But he doesn't have to. He can tell by Geralt's expression that he understands perfectly well.

He climbs the stupid, deadly stairs one last time, soaking in the history and horror of this place that used to make witchers. He isn't surprised to see Geralt's pack and saddlebags already propped by the bed, full, and no sign left on any surface that they were ever here. They bathe, and don't fuck, and Jaskier sleeps deeply with his arms around Geralt, face against Geralt's clavicle.

By the morning, Jaskier is finally prepared to say goodbye to Kaer Morhen.

Lambert has both the horses saddled and outside by the time Jaskier and Geralt get to the courtyard. The sky is overcast, the light wind crisp with lingering winter. Jaskier will be glad to have Geralt in the saddle behind him as a personal heat source and windbreak when they get on the difficult part of the trail.

“Okay, bard,” Lambert calls, swinging himself up into Red's saddle while Geralt boosts Jaskier onto Roach. “Sing it. I know you've been sitting on it all winter, so fuckin' get it out of your system before I change my mind.”

“Pardon?”

“I won't say it again!”

Then Jaskier blinks, and a smile breaks over his face. He's done plenty of performing this winter, but there has been one song that all four witchers have adamantly refused to let him play. Behind him in the saddle, Geralt groans. Jaskier's lute is strapped firmly to Roach's flank, but he doesn't need it for this. He clears his throat, and Geralt urges Roach forward onto the path out of the castle grounds.

_“When a humble bard graced a ride along...”_

The refrain echoes off the mountainsides as they go.

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for extremely minor animal death, I suppose - just a practical case of domestic meat animals being used for their purpose (dinner). Not explicit or dwelt on.
> 
> In terms of sexual content, all vanilla except I suppose for a lot of rimming, but hey. Listen. They don't have actual lube, y'all. They have what the entire fandom handwaves away as ""oil."" Excessive spit action feels necessary, that's all I'm saying.


End file.
